


Under The Fuzzy Blanket, The World Is Dark and Dim

by eeyore9990



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blankets, Comfort/Angst, Derek Comes Back, Derek's Birthday, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 13:37:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6521923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/pseuds/eeyore9990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek returns home to Beacon Hills on December 26, driven by a need he can't fully articulate.  He doesn't go to the loft, or to the place where his house once stood.  Instead, he finds himself standing on the front porch of the Stilinski's house, fingers opening and closing into a fist that he can't bring himself to use to knock on the front door.</p><p>It's storming.  He's freezing and wet, can feel the icy water literally running down his body.  He knows that solace and warmth is inside, but he just can't bring himself to ask for it.  </p><p>Then, Stiles opens the door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under The Fuzzy Blanket, The World Is Dark and Dim

**Author's Note:**

> For seven hours, this bunny stewed in my head while I drove home from a lovely weekend in Tennessee visiting my brothers. 
> 
> Beware the long-toothed bunny.

Stiles grumbled as the plastic bag vacuum sealed itself to the inside of the trash can, finally holding it a few feet in the air as the can slowly sank to the floor before suddenly falling with a clatter that made his dad, dozing in front of the baseball game playing on the television, snuffle a bit before his snores once more began to fill the air. Stiles grabbed the bag with his knees, wrestling with the little flaps until they were tied tightly enough not to spill any trash onto the floor, then walked to the front door. 

He sighed as lightning from outside illuminated the entryway through the glass panes that framed the doorway, shoving his feet into his shoes before he pulled open the door and…

Dropped the bag of trash, barely noticing the way something in the bottom clanged against the tiles.

"Derek?" he asked, his voice hushed, probably too low for even supernatural hearing what with the way the rain was pouring down, gushing out of gutters so overwhelmed that they were overflowing and causing rivulets of rainwater to roll over the sides and pour freezing water directly down the back of the man standing under them.

But Derek looked up anyway, hair plastered to his face and that broken look in his eyes that Stiles knew too well. Stiles reached out, his hand hesitating in midair before he inhaled a shaky breath and pushed forward, wrapping his fingers around Derek's shoulder. Fine tremors shook the muscles under his hand, and it was then that Stiles noticed the cold air whipping around, propelling the rain onto the porch.

"Jesus," Stiles breathed. "How long have you been standing out here? Come in, dude." He pulled a little as he spoke, hoping to prompt Derek into action, but it was like trying to move a boulder.

When Derek just continued to stare at him, eyes dark with grief, Stiles tugged a little harder, putting a bit of steel in his tone. 

"Get in here, Derek."

Stiles didn't know where Derek had been this last year, didn't ask. He didn't _need_ to know, not now. Not when Derek was so _broken_. So he just guided him inside the house and ignored the way Derek was dripping and shaking, the tremors that had been all but undetectable outside growing into full, body-wracking shivers. Stiles pulled and tugged, pushed when necessary, until Derek was standing in their laundry room, a fresh-from-the-dryer towel covering his head as Stiles massaged it gently through his wet hair, trying to warm him and comfort him at the same time.

"Hey," he said finally, fingers still massaging at Derek's scalp, but no longer scrubbing in a need to bring color back to cheeks gone too pale under eyes that were too dark. "We're going to go up to my room." Stiles paused a moment, watched for any twitch around Derek's eyes or for his lips to tighten. But his expression never changed, just remained so horribly broken that Stiles didn't think he could bring himself to ask why.

So instead he tossed the now-wet towel into the washer, pulled another warm, dry one from the dryer, and shoved the stack of his clothes he'd already folded under his arm. He stepped toward the door, beckoning Derek, then watched anxiously until Derek started following him, his entire body somehow slumped in on itself as he dripped his way along behind Stiles, through the lower floor, up the stairs, and into Stiles' room.

Stiles dropped the clothes on his dresser, flipping a few items off the top of the pile and picking up a couple more. "Here's some sweats and a t-shirt. Just…" Stiles' words stuttered to a halt as he watched tears build up on Derek's lower lashes. Biting his lip, he stepped forward, hands coming to rest at Derek's waist. "I'll help," he said softly. "We'll get you dry and then… Whatever you want."

Derek dipped his chin into a hint of a nod, the most reaction he'd shown since Stiles had opened the door to find him drenched and miserable.

Slowly, not wanting to startle Derek or do anything that might upset him, Stiles slid the cold, still-dripping shirt up, speaking directions in a hushed voice until Derek raised his arms and passively let Stiles undress him. It was… it was the scariest fucking thing Stiles had ever witnessed, honestly. Before starting on Derek's pants, Stiles took a minute to rub Derek's chest and arms with the warm towel until his skin started to pink up and pulled one of his clean, soft tee shirts over his head, keeping it bunched around Derek's ribs so that the hem didn't soak up any of the water causing his jeans to sag around his hipbones.

The metal button was difficult to maneuver through the hole, but Stiles finally got it undone and lowered Derek's zipper, raising his eyes to the midpoint of Derek's chest as he wrestled the wet denim down his legs and then, holding his breath, squeezed his eyes closed and dropped to his knees to ease Derek's shoes off so he could get his jeans the rest of the way free of his body. When he jerked Derek's underwear down his thighs, Stiles not only kept his eyes squeezed shut, but actually turned his head in an attempt to protect Derek's privacy.

Thankfully, Derek's jeans were tight enough and wet enough that as they came off, they pulled Derek's socks off as well until he was naked from the waist down. Not that Stiles was really looking. He squinted his eyes open just to confirm all the clothes were gone, then sort of swiped the towel half-heartedly over the skin he could see in his peripheral and called it good. The sweats went on easily enough, even if they were a little snug through the hips, but eventually Derek was fully dressed in clean, dry clothing.

With that done, Stiles rolled Derek's discarded clothing into the towel and threw the whole, sodden lump toward his bedroom door. For Derek himself, Stiles went to his closet and, after only a moment of hesitation, pulled the fuzzy blanket that his mom had given him down from the top of his closet and walked over, pushing him gently until he was perched at the edge of Stiles' bed, then draped the blanket around Derek. When that didn't do anything to loosen the stiff, miserable line of Derek's body, Stiles nibbled his lip for a minute before mentally shrugging and climbing onto the bed beside him.

He tugged and adjusted until Derek was lying stretched out on his side, the blanket tucked up under his feet, and then wrapped _himself_ spoon-style around Derek under the heavy fuzziness of the blanket that he allowed to settle over their heads, cocooning them both inside its comforting confines. And then Stiles just held on, breathing over the back of Derek's neck as he held him so tight it would probably have hurt a human. Thankfully, it seemed to settle Derek. 

Or, if not settle him, the bone-rattling shaking eased back to tiny tremors until eventually they were both just laying there, still in the silent dark under the blanket.

"Hey," Stiles finally whispered, keeping his voice low and soothing. "D'you wanna… talk about it?" He grimaced even as he offered that suggestion, somehow hearing the same words in his therapist's voice, even all these years later.

There was a long moment of silence, so stretched out that Stiles stopped expecting an answer, before Derek whispered in a scratchy voice, "Yesterday was my birthday." There was so much pain in those four words, so much chest-clenching _grief_ that Stiles instinctively held him closer, bony wrists probably pressing a little painfully against Derek's sternum.

Stiles waited for more, but it didn't come. _Happy birthday_ seemed wrong. Trite, even, in the face of Derek's overwhelming despair. He couldn't think why Derek's birthday would upset him besides the obvious of having his whole family dead and not around to celebrate it with him…

Okay, yeah, that'd probably do it.

Stiles hooked his chin over Derek's shoulder, hugging him _that_ way too, since the rest of his body was already fully engaged. It just seemed like more was necessary.

"I'm twenty-five," Derek said after they'd been lying there so long Stiles' arms were starting to ache from the strain of hugging Derek so tight.

Unable to just lay there any more without doing _something_ , Stiles started to rub the flat of his palm over Derek's chest, trying to _will_ some happiness back into the man who'd grown far too accustomed to defeat.

"Laura," Derek choked out in a hushed whispered before his voice crumbled and his shoulders heaved. 

Stiles stopped moving, tightening his arms again almost involuntarily.

Derek gasped a few times before he said her name again. "Laura was…"

And that's when Stiles got it. Laura had been twenty-four when she died, according to his dad's police report. Younger than Derek was now. Icy horror filled him, clenched inside his stomach, and he just buried his face in the side of Derek's neck, breathing in the scent of Derek's pain that was unmistakable, even to a frail, human nose.

"Shh," he murmured shakily. "Shh. I know, man. I know."

Though they lay like that for hours, through the passing of the storm, through the weakly rising sun, Stiles didn't think either of them slept. No more words were spoken; they were unnecessary and honestly couldn't help. Words could never help that level of grief, Stiles knew. So he just held Derek, held him close and warm under the weight of the blanket.

Eventually they'd get up. He'd learn where Derek had been for the last year. He'd finish bringing the forgotten trash to the bin outside, he'd do a load of laundry so Derek could have clean, dry clothes of his own to wear. He'd call Scott and Isaac, Lydia and Liam and Malia. He'd try to find Cora. He'd let the pack have their own opportunity to offer their collective strength to their most fragile member.

But for now they just lay there, grieving together, one for the sister and Alpha who would never grow older, and the other for the broken man in his arms.


End file.
